Are You Drunk Dialing Again?
by tessaless
Summary: Chuck's wry comment about Blair's drunk dialing habit is explained. Dorota included. As well as Roman.
1. Dorota

A/N: Chuck does not belong to me. (please, I wish) Anyways, wrote this before 1x17 but after the 1X17 promo. You know the one.

* * *

Chuck was in no mood to be pestered, but of course Dan Humphrey arrived to ruin that. And he of course asked several obnoxious, stalker-like questions about Serena. Chuck stared at Dan angrily. Apparently he seemed to be losing some clout, however, because instead of apologizing and walking out of the room, Dan tried again.

"Her bed hasn't been slept in," he remarked. Chuck narrowed his eyes. _GO AWAY_, he beamed at Dan telepathically. It didn't work.

"Well, I knew housekeeping was hiring," Chuck replied, "But I had no idea their standards were so low." Dan smiled.

"I hate that I have to ask you this, but have you seen Serena," he asked. Chuck raised an eyebrow. As if Dan hadn't already asked this question about seven times.

"Oh, I've seen lots of Serena," Chuck said, jumping on the opportunity to both exercise his overactive imagination and annoy Dan at the same time, and just as he was about to go into detail, his phone rang. Chuck pulled it out, but stopped as he saw who was calling—Blair! His stomach dropped. Blair, who hadn't looked at, or spoken to him for four whole weeks. Four long, excruciatingly painful weeks. Chuck remembered the last time Blair called him, though he doubted she would…

* * *

Blair sighed and re-adjusted her bright yellow ribbon headband for probably the seventy-sixth time that afternoon. She sat on the stool in front of her vanity, impeccably dressed and primped: red tights, checkered blue shorts, Dior lip gloss. Whirling around, she checked her phone half-heartedly for text messages or missed calls. There were none. She sighed again, more audibly. This spring break was turning out to be Such. A. Drag. Where was Serena, who had promised to be there for her? Honestly, she should have just gone to Europe. Blair angrily yanked off her headband and fell down upon her immaculately made bed.

"Dorota!" she called, "Where are you?" Blair heard rustling from down the hall as Dorota bustled around, dusting.

"I am coming, Miss Blair!" Blair stood up quickly, the blood rushing to her head. She ignored the sensation and stuffed the ribbon headband back onto her messy bun. Again. She walked towards the sound of Dorota's voice, wandering through the rooms until she finally found the trademark tight bun and heels that were her live-in.

"Dorota," she whined, drawing out the word, "If I have to spend one more night watching Trading Spaces re-runs, I am probably going to do something drastic." Dorota paused in her curtain-dusting. She turned around to Blair, hiding a smile.

"So, are you hungry, Miss Blair?" She asked, "Would you like me to make you a sandwich, yes?" Blair rolled her eyes in indignation.

"I'm serious! I need to go out! Be young! Be free! Be tr—"

"I will have none of this, Miss Blair," Dorota interrupted. "Come with me, we will go to the kitchen and cook something, okay? Okay." Dorota stepped down from the stool she was using to clean the curtains and walked out of the room without another word. Blair stomped her foot angrily, but followed her. When she arrived in the kitchen, Dorota had a large blender in the middle of the counter and was putting all sorts of tropical fruit, yogurt, and juice into the glass center of it.

"What are you doing, exactly?" Blair demanded angrily. Dorota glanced up at her, but did not instantly respond. She snapped the top onto the blender and whirred it up, drowning out 

any possibility of listening to Blair's shrill voice. The previously separate solids smashed together until they consisted of nothing but a uniform, orange, sloshing liquid. Blair pressed her lips together. _Not unlike my life,_ she thought angrily. Dorota grabbed two tall glasses from a cabinet and expertly poured the smoothies into them. "What is this supposed to be?" Blair demanded again. Dorota smiled.

"Well, Miss Blair, everyone likes smoothies. And since you are in such a foul mood this afternoon, I thought you would like one." Blair opened her mouth to complain, but Dorota quickly continued, "I used the low fat yogurt. You must drink." Blair narrowed her eyes, but gingerly picked up the cocktail glass anyways. She dipped a pinky finger into the liquid, tasting the fruity concoction. A bell sounded off in the distance, and Dorota smoothed her skirt. "Drink up!" she insisted, "I will be back in one moment, okay?" and hurried off to tend to Eleanor.

Blair rolled her eyes. A _smoothie_ was not what she needed. Dorota didn't know anything. What she needed was for Hazel or Is or Penelope to call her, begging for forgiveness. She needed Serena to stop screwing Brooklyn long enough to spend some time with her. She needed Chuck to st— Blair paused. She needed _Chuck_? What was she thinking? What she needed was Nate, not Chuck. Perfect, mellow, unbelievably sexy Nate. Blair made a face. What she needed was to party. Blair quickly eyed the doorway to make sure that Dorota was actually gone, then bent down underneath the island counter- reaching behind the flour and Crisco until she felt the cool, smooth glass bottle she was looking for. Aha! Blair carefully pulled the bottle out from where she had hidden it so many years ago, and poured what could conservatively be called an extremely generous splash of Bacardi into her smoothie. She grinned wickedly, stirring the frozen drink with her straw, and tasted it. It burned a little going down her throat. Perfect. Blair returned her bottle of liquor just as Dorota rounded the corner back into the kitchen.

"Are you getting anything in particular, Miss Blair?" she asked. Blair stood up, too quickly.

"No," she lied easily, "I was just looking for an earring I dropped." Dorota eyed her suspiciously.

"Okay, Miss Blair," she said, and reached for a smoothie. Blair realized what she was doing just as Dorota brought the spiked glass to her lips.

"No!" she cried. Dorota looked up in alarm. "I mean," Blair bit her lip, "Don't drink that particular one, please. I've already sipped from it. And I'm ill. Really. Just… that one's mine." Dorota raised a skeptical eyebrow, but replaced the glass, picking up the other smoothie.

"Okay, then." She said. Blair grabbed her Bacardi smoothie protectively, and cast about for a quick change of subject. Her eyes landed upon the bright yellow box Dorota had carried into the room and placed next to the blender.

"What is that, Dorota?" she demanded. Dorota smiled.

"It's a game for you," she said, "I asked your mother, and she said that I could stop cleaning tonight to cheer you up. We are going to play, and it used to be your favorite." Blair stepped closer to the box

"Connect Four?!" she asked, "You think that connect four will cheer me up?"

Dorota's smile dropped.

"Well either this, Miss Blair, or you can go back upstairs and stare at your cell phone waiting for that boy to call you. Mister Chuck, I believe." Blair blanched. She was not waiting for Chuck. She was not!

"Nate," she informed Dorota, "His name is Nate." Dorota nodded knowingly.

"Whatever you say, Miss," she said. "Come on, let us play." She grabbed the Connect Four box in one hand, and Blair's hand with the other, leading her through to the living room, where she placed the game upon the low table. Blair resignedly took a gigantic sip from her smoothie, making a face. _There_, she thought, _better already_.

Sixty-three minutes later, Blair was starting to seriously feel the effects of her orange drink. There seemed to be about three of Dorota, and she kept missing the board when trying to drop her chips into the Connect Four bank.

"Are you okay, Miss Blair," Dorota asked concernedly. "You have lost seventeen out of the twenty games we play, and I let you win two. Something is wrong." Blair giggled obnoxiously, and waved her hand in Dorota's general vicinity.

"Nothing is wrong, Dorrrrrrrota," she slurred. "I am just fine and not wrong with anything." Dorota frowned and continued to stare at Blair. "Seriously! I am A-okay. I am not losing this game and I am also not sick. Siiicccckkkk. That is. A funny word." Dorota reached over to feel Blair's forehead, but crinkled her nostrils when she got close.

"Miss Blair, you smell like something else," she said, peering at her carefully.

"I am not drunk." Blair said. "I got a drink spilled on me earlier." Dorota raised an eyebrow.

"Nice try, Miss, but you have been with me this entire time. You have been at no parties to get drinks spilled, and I want to know what has been going on this very instant." Blair shrugged as she tried to rack her befuddled brain for a decent excuse. Dorota was smart, that was for sure. The drink thing had always worked on her mom, although, in retrospect, her mom was usually also fully buzzed at the time as well. What would Chuck do in a time like this? Blair inwardly gasped. Chuck again? What was wrong with her tonight?

"Blair." Dorota's tone was firm, angry. "I am waiting." All of a sudden, Blair simply couldn't take it any longer. She collapsed into tears.

"I'm sorry, Dorota," she sobbed. "I just… I miss my friends. I miss my life. I miss…" Blair trailed off. Chuck, she silently admitted to herself. It was the first time Blair had ever considered missing Chuck as a possibility. The effect was oddly sobering. Dorota continued to regard Blair.

"And all you have done is drink this liquor?" Dorota asked, her tone still hard. Blair continued to cry.

"Yes. I hate my life," she whined, in between tears.

"Okay," Dorota said, "We are done here. You, get up." Blair stumbled to her feet, wiping her face with the side of her Marc Jacobs tunic. "We are going upstairs. And you are going to Club Bed." Blair allowed herself to be led by an angry, maternal Dorota. She couldn't think straight, and she mostly just wanted to pass out. Dorota yanked Blair into her striped silk pj's and forced her to down three glasses of Pellegrino. Blair lay in bed silently, her drunken stupor returning. As soon as Dorota turned off her lights with a final slam of Blair's bedroom door, she noticed a blue LCD light glowing across the room. Curious as to what could be making that blinding light, Blair rolled out of bed, tripping onto the floor, and picked up the foreign object—her cell phone! The bright, hypnotic light seemed to advise an epiphany. Blair suddenly seemed to have a mission in life- calling Chuck. Not even scrolling through her address book for his name- after all, she knew his number by heart- Blair punched in the familiar digits, conveniently forgetting that they weren't on speaking terms. He picked up on the first ring. She giggled.

"Blair?" Chuck asked, drawling into the phone, "I thought I told you not to speak to me again." Her stomach dropped. Oh, yeah. That conversation. The Arabians. Etc. it was all coming back to her now. Oh, well.

"I…I…" she stammered. "I guess I miss you." Chuck's voice sounded distant and appealing. Comforting, even.

"Are you drunk or something?" he asked. "It's like, six-thirty." This news shocked Blair.

"In the morning?" she asked, confused, "But then why is it so dark?"

"No, in the afternoon. Blair, where are you?" Chuck sounded more urgent, concerned. Blair giggled again.

"I'm in bed," she explained, then added, "And I'm thinking of you." There was no reply for awhile. Then, strained, Chuck's voice came through.

"Blair," he said, "I really don't have time for this. You're clearly inebriated, and I have things to do. How about you just… I don't know." Blair could hear Chuck sighing onto the phone. Suddenly she was very, very tired.

"But I miss you," she whispered, sleepily. Chuck didn't respond for a long time, but she knew he didn't hang up either. She could hear his breathing, and it made her even drowsier. Club Bed was warm. Blair grabbed a chocolate off of the box on her dresser. She chewed it contentedly. "Will you come shopping with me tomorrow?" she asked, and then giggled again. "We can buy you a new scarf!" Finally, Chuck spoke.

"Look," he said, "You are not going to even remember this conversation, and --"

"Yes, I will," Blair insisted.

"Okay," Chuck said, "Then if you remember this, and you don't want to kill yourself thinking about it, which I most severely doubt, you can call me again tomorrow, and I will remind you exactly how needy you sound. Which in turn will make you want to kill yourself. So I don't think I can exactly agree to a Sunday outing with you, Blair."

"Don't let me kill myself," Blair said.

"I won't," Chuck promised, and Blair could feel his smile through the phone.

* * *

Chuck picked up his ringing phone. Dan tried to edge in close, in case his precious Serena was the one calling.

"Are you drunk dialing again?" he asked, painfully aware of the fact that Blair almost certainly didn't recall their last contact.

* * *

A/N: The more you review, the more likely Chuck & Blair are to have hot babies!


	2. Isabel

Chuck Bass held his blackberry in hand, mind racing. Blair had just called him—Blair! She asked him—no, demanded, Blair never asked, only told him—that his presence would be required "immediately" for what could only be described as an "urgent matter". He stood in the doorway to Serena's bedroom, hand gripping the doorframe for balance. How clearly he could picture Blair the last time she had called him for an "urgent matter". Chuck grinned as he thought of that night over a year in the past. Typical Blair, who never could figure out how to act in the face of an unforeseen event…

* * *

"Should I buy these in navy or black?" Blair Waldorf asked her friend Isabel Coates in reference to a frayed pair of silk Chloé shorts she wore over her signature red tights. Isabel shrugged.

"It doesn't really matter, B," she sighed, "It's not like you're allowed to wear shorts that short at school, anyways." Blair whipped around, put a thin hand on her hip and shot a glare at Is.

"These, Isabel, are not for school. They're for going clubbing." Isabel paled visibly under Blair's judging eyes.

"I- I think they're cute," she said cautiously. Blair twirled in front of the three-way mirror in the private fitting room at Neiman Marcus.

"I'm going to wear them tonight." Is furrowed her eyebrows in confusion.

"But, Blair," she said, "Today is Tuesday. What are you doing tonight?" Blair waltzed back into the fitting room.

"I'm buying the white ones. They show off my tan better." She exchanged the shorts for her woolen uniform skirt and tossed them carelessly over the marble privacy door. "Go tell whatever-her-name-is to go and ring these up for me." Blair heard Isabel's fading footsteps as she trod into the hallway. Blair stood on her tiptoes and inspected herself in the full-length reflective glass. She grimaced at herself. Her reflection grimaced back.

Blair pulled her sweater up and tucked it under her armpits. She sucked her stomach in as far as she could and held her breath carefully. Still holding everything in, she touched her ribs and her hipbones and let the air out with a low hiss. Blair pulled her sweater back down and poked at her trim figure with a frown. No wonder Nate was acting so weird lately. She was hideous! Who in their right mind would want to be seen with her, much less actually touch her?

Blair scoped out the store for Is, a notorious shoe fiend. Sure enough, Isabel was found seated on a plush bench on the third floor, strappy leather heels in hand. Blair sidled up next to her and perched herself at the end of the couch, an innocent smile playing at her lips.

"You're in a good mood, B," Is smiled, too. If Blair was happy, everyone else was happy. Or at least a bit more relaxed. "Did Nate just call?" Blair scowled. Then she grinned.

"You're going to buy those," she declared, "They're perfect." Is shrugged.

"I don't know," she wavered, "I don't really have anywhere good to wear them." Blair's smile grew even wider, her skin stretching taut over her bone structure.

"Are we going clubbing tonight?" Blair's questions tended to sound more like statements. Isabel's eyes grew wide.

"I don't know, Blair," she said, and began to bite on her left pinky manicured nail. "My mom's been super strict ever since I got a 'D' in yoga last semester." Blair narrowed her own eyes. Leave it to Is to suck all the fun out of any possible situation. Blair's smile melted off of her face like butter on a freshly grilled filet mignon.

"We're going to P.J. Clarke's. I don't care what you tell your mother." Is continued to gnaw on her nail.

"Were you aware that nails are made up entirely of rejected bone material?" Blair asked her condescendingly. Isabel promptly removed the fingernail from her mouth. Blair smirked. "I'm picking you up at nine," she said, and left Is alone to go pay for her new silk shorts.

Blair pondered her life as she walked back to her penthouse from the downtown Neiman Marcus. Nate, who hadn't talked to her in five days, Serena who two weeks ago disappeared after that wedding for no reason at all, and Chuck, who seemed to know some sort of secret he wouldn't tell her and kept getting moody and morose for seemingly no reason: her relationships were a mess. Her father was acting strangely and distant, and her mother was spending more time then ever working.

Kati, Is, Hazel and Penelope were the only people she felt she could count on, anymore. And even they seemed to be stretching themselves too thin for her taste, sometimes. Blair sighed. She needed Nate to call and apologize and make everything right again. But she needed to relax even more. Blair quickened her pace slightly. She absolutely could not wait to go out, and forget.

Which is how she found herself, in her new white shorts and a slinky lavender tank top, dancing in the middle of a crowd with three strangers, one of whom was fondling her ass. Blair wasn't sure if she liked this fact or not. She had had two shots and two mixed drinks and was starting to feel a little—wait, where did Isabel go? Blair scanned the crowd for her tall and glamorous friend (the strappy sandals had been a hit, didn't she have fabulous taste?) but couldn't spot her anywhere in the club.

Blair extracted herself from the guy she was grinding against. He had to be at least thirty, why hadn't she noticed that before, gross. She made her way along the wall, searching for Is.

"Blair? Remember me?" a masculine voice called from somewhere behind her. Blair whipped around and found herself face-to-face with her mother's designer friend, Ramon. "Aren't you a little bit young to be partying here at this time of night, darling?" he asked her in accented English. (Ramon was French. Maybe.) Blair squinted at him. There seemed to be two of him. Also, her father was behind him—her father? Blair rubbed at her eyes with her fists, which stung. Her father was still present.

"Dad?" she asked. The man turned around. His eyes grew wide with surprise.

"Blair?! What are you doing here? This is a 21 and over bar!" He grabbed her shoulder and pushed her around to face him. Blair narrowed her eyes. She suddenly felt very, very sober.

"Actually, Harold, I feel I have more of a right than you to be asking that question." She shot him with her meanest look. The look that sent freshmen to the nurse's office crying. The look that could make even Georgina Sparks quiver in fear. Her father swallowed. Blair opened her mouth, and closed it again. Blair Cornelia Waldorf was 

struck speechless, an event that rarely, rarely occurred. She bit back the hot salty tears that threatened to spring from behind her dry, itchy eyes.

"You're supposed to be on a business trip," Blair told her father. "In Milan." She heard her voice crack, and Harold must also have, because he moved as if to give her a hug.

"I can explain, Blair," he started. "You see, yeste--,"

"Save it, Harold," she interrupted. "I have absolutely zero interest in your pack of lies." Blair turned on her heel and stalked away from them, before she lost all composure. She had just called her father that morning, waking up at six am, (to make up for the time difference) and he had been telling her about his meetings. Bullshit. Blair stumbled and grabbed on to who appeared to be a middle-aged business man to stop herself from falling over. He looked up and grinned.

"Hey there, gorgeous," he catcalled. "Might want to be a bit more careful there." His voice was low and greasy.

"Sorry," Blair said, and tried to stand up, but discovered that one of her Cavalli heels had broken, causing her to collapse back on top of him again. He laughed.

"I'm Seth," he said, nodding. "You clearly are in need of another drink." Blair grudgingly accepted the fact that she probably would not be walking very far, and allowed Seth to signal the waiter for some liquor, mostly because it was loads less effort to just go along with him. (Also because she desperately did need another drink.) Seth sat down and began to run his hand up and down her bare thigh. Blair tried to move it away, but he just pushed his fingers further up, under the hem of her new shorts, disgustingly close to her yellow lace thong. Blair fidgeted.

"Please refrain from touching me," she attempted, but it came out more like "Pleeeee refmgkljfe frjen touching me." This only encouraged Seth-the-child-rapist further. Blair kicked him. "I'm fifteen, asshole," she shouted. He let go of her body immediately.

Blair rolled out of the booth where he had held her captive and made her way across the club floor, her heels left askew on the floor. She gulped down the alcohol that Seth had given her, dropping the glass in a trashcan. Ugh, where was Is now?

Blair steadied herself against the wall, her mind spinning. She checked her cell phone—1:19 am. Maybe it was time to think about getting home. Where was Isabel?! Blair flipped open her cell and furiously dialed her number.

Isabel answered on the first ring. She sounded scared.

"Where are you?" Blair spat. "I've been looking for you for like an hour!" She sat down on the ground, ignoring the sticky mess somewhere around her left knee.

"I'm sorry, B." Her voice came through the line, crackly and distant. "My mom found out I was gone, and…"

"Where are you?" Blair asked again, softer.

"At home. She called Dorota, who called your driver, who told her where we were. She came and got me. I could be like, slaughtered for just talking to you right now." The music suddenly seemed too loud, and too grating. Blair felt nauseous.

"Okay," she said.

"Okay?" Is asked, sounding visibly relieved. Blair hung up. She could deal with Isabel Coates and her abandonment later. Because her stomach was turning dangerously. Blair stood back up and tried to find her way to the bathroom. An old man grabbed her 

ass. She kicked him in the shin. Yes, it was definitely time to go home. Blair passed her father and her mother's friend again and felt her stomach flip again.

Barely making it outside, Blair emptied the contents of her stomach onto the pavement. Disgusting. Blair called her driver, but he didn't pick up. She called again. And again. Someone was seriously going to get fired tomorrow. Blair searched through her address book, wondering who she could get help from. Her vision was swimming and she could barely make out the names on the LED screen. Nate? No, not since he'd been ignoring her. She would have called Serena, but Serena disappeared. Eleanor? That was a joke. Chuck? Eh, maybe. Chuck would send a car, at least. Blair pressed the green button.

She heard six rings before Chuck picked up, with a groan and a croaky "Hello?" So Chuck had been sleeping. Oh, well.

"Chuck?" she asked.

"Yeh?"

"It's Blair. Hi. I woke you up." Chuck groaned again. She heard bed sheets rustle as he moved.

"Yeah, no, it's okay. What's wrong?" Blair smiled. Something about Chuck could make even sitting on the dirty pavement downtown at one-thirty in the morning after vomiting okay.

"I kind of need your help," Blair slurred. "It's an urgent matter."

"Okay."

"I'm at P.J. Clarke's. And I can't remember how to get home. And I think—I think I'm too drunk to walk home." Chuck laughed, a low, gravelly sound.

"I know you're too drunk to walk home, Blair." Blair ran her free hand through her tangled hair.

"I don't even know where my shoes are," she said. "Will you send someone to get me?"

"I don't know if I can do that," Chuck teased. "At least without some sort of payback, so to speak." Blair giggled.

"If you don't help me, I'll be forced to go and pay back Seth, the Jewish accountant who tried to rape me earlier."

"Someone tried to rape you?" Chuck sounded awake, now. And serious.

"Sortttttt-of," Blair whispered.

"Hold on," he said, "I'll be there." Blair giggled again. Maybe Seth was kind-of hot, in a fat, old guy way. Maybe not. Blair was holding her phone to her ear, like she was talking to someone. Was she talking to someone? Blair shut her phone. Oh well, not anymore, she wasn't. Blair tried to put her hair into a ponytail, but she couldn't seem to figure out how to do it. Oh well.

"Hey, if it isn't my severely underage friend," a familiar voice called behind her. Blair turned around. Seth!

"I was just talking about you!" She said. He sat down next to her and snaked an arm around her waist. Blair wrinkled her nose. "You smell bad." Seth breathed into her hear.

"What's your name, sweetheart," he purred.

"I have a boyfriend," Blair said.

As if on cue, a large, black limo snaked down the block and stopped in front of Blair and Seth, who were sitting on the curb. The back door opened, and Chuck stepped out, red and white silk striped pajamas and furry moccasins adorning his body.

"Get off of her, asshole," he called. Blair looked up.

"Chuck?" she asked. "What are you doing here?" Chuck smirked.

"You called," he said, simply. His hair was in disarray from sleeping and he had dark circles under his eyes. Blair thought he looked ridiculous standing there on the curb holding the limo door out for her. She extracted herself from Seth, who looked at her dumbfounded.

"_That's_ your boyfriend?" he asked.

"Are you coming, or what? I look like a tool here, B." Chuck mussed his hair with the hand he wasn't using to hold the door open. His driver unrolled the window and peered out to see what was going on.

Blair stood up and blew Seth a kiss. "You're a child molester!" she said, and hopped into the limo next to Chuck. He crawled in after her and shut the door behind him. They sat in the back, knees touching, Blair cross-legged on the cool, leather seat. They looked at each other. The car began to roll.

"So," Chuck started. "What, exactly, triggered this instantaneous and extreme descent into sluttiness?" Blair shrugged.

"I bought new shorts," she said. "See?" Chuck took the inseam between his fingers and rubbed the smooth fabric.

"Quality," he said. "Is it Nate?" Blair's eyes shot up. Chuck did know something about Nate, she could tell.

"Why would it be Nate?" Chuck's face slid into what seemed to be an expression of disinterest, but his eyes clouded over dangerously. Not that Blair noticed.

"Your hair looks funny," she said, and leaned her head back onto his silken pajama-clad shoulder. Chuck moved his arm around her shoulders and squeezed.

"I love you when you're drunk, Blair," he said at the same time as she went, "I saw my dad there."

"What?" Chuck asked. "But isn't he supposed to be in Italy?"

"I don't know," Blair sighed dramatically. "It's total shit." Chuck squeezed her shoulder again.

"Hey," he said, "I got up and out of bed to come and save you from your own intoxicated destruction. Look me in the eye. It's not all bad."

"It's all just a part of my shitty, shitty life," Blair seemed not to hear him. "But you're not shitty," she said. The limo pulled up outside of her building. Chuck looked at her seriously.

"You're life isn't shitty," he said. Blair kissed him on the cheek and stumbled out of the limo, her bare feet smacking against the cool pavement. "Don't wake Eleanor!" Chuck called after her.

* * *

"You'll never believe what happened at P.J. Clarke's last night," Hazel announced self-righteously several weeks later. Blair spooned yogurt into her mouth absently.

"What did you see?" Penelope asked, eyes wide with attention. Hazel smiled and flipped her cropped hair.

"I got hit on by the hugest loser ever," she said. "He was wearing striped silk pajamas, and he seemed to think it made him like, a sex god, or something." Everyone in the circle laughed dutifully. "I told him where he could go stick his lame outfit, but he kept saying it worked on this hot chick once or something. Totally hilarious." Blair swallowed another spoonful, watching Chuck and Nate buy weed across the street.

"Striped silk pajamas," she said. "You should've let him take you home."


End file.
